Never Quite The Same River

Everything is still the same when I return. Even the pictures on my noticeboard are there, pinned at the same off-angles.

I lie back on my bed the first day and stare at the ceiling, wondering what I feel. And I hope that I can begin to write again.

The suitcases are unpacked now, clothes folded and books shelved. And yet the words won't come. There is a bruise that feels deep, too deep.

This may be a separating page, or it may be a postscript; a pause or a full stop.

I suppose I feel a need to say goodbye. This has been a good place to share with you all. I hope it will be again.